


Smile

by TheLocket



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky talks about his feelings, Cuddling, Cute, Denial of Feelings, Feels, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Make-out, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Showers, Snuggling, Stargazing, Steve smells good okay, Stubborn Steve, Wrestling, heat - Freeform, star-gazing, that thing where guys wear towels really low
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 06:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13921449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLocket/pseuds/TheLocket
Summary: When an official Captain America press event runs over, the whole crew gets stuck in Cincinnati overnight. With only a few rooms left at the hotel, Bucky offers to bunk with Steve—how bad could it be? But he forgot how awful Steve can be as a roommate. He has no personal space. He never wears clothes. And, even worse, he smells really good.Bucky is in for a rough night.





	Smile

It was happening again.

Steve Rogers had, once again, officially forgotten how to smile.

There weren't normally many legitimately funny moments on tours like these, so it was understandable. Bucky hadn't been around for the USO tour back in the 40s, but seeing it now he almost felt lucky to have had the excuse of fighting in World War II. This was their first stop, and already Bucky wanted to go back home. Like, yesterday. From his post in the furthest corner—monitoring all doors and windows, an absurdly impossible task in a conference room that was 90% glass—Bucky focused on crossing his arms and keeping the bland security-appropriate expression on his face. And not laughing at Steve's expression, like he desperately wanted to.

After the latest incident, Steve had insisted on touring all major cities that had been impacted. To remind people that superheroes helped people, not just occasionally rained stuff out of the sky and caused horrible traffic backups by stealing each other's steering wheels. Even if this time around it wasn’t Bucky causing the mayhem, but a purple alien named Thanos. Which was stupid, because when Bucky—or the Winter Soldier—decided to get down to business, no one was getting to work. Thanos didn’t have the same attention to detail.

But still, Bucky didn't exactly plan on spending his first week back from cryo after fighting aliens in stuffy conference rooms, glad-handing with rich shampoo executives from Cincinnati.

Across the conference table, several yards in front of him, Steve was posing with a little girl in a wheelchair, and wearing an expression like he had just tasted a lemon for the first time.

"How many more of these?" Bucky asked in his comm.

"We approved twenty-seven photos," Maria Hill said, her voice calm and clinical in Bucky's ear. Clearly she had not yet been clued into the joys of Captain Grimace.

"And how many is this one?" Bucky asked, as the camera flashed and the girl's dad stepped in for a selfie with yes, that was a selfie-stick.

Risk of causing physical harm to Captain America: less than 3%.

Risk of giving Captain America a double chin in the photo: approximately 56%.

"Seventy-eight," Hill replied. "And . . . seventy-nine."

"Wanna take bets on how many more our boy can handle?" Sam's voice cut through the line, anything but calm and clinical, and Bucky shifted his eye line slightly off Steve to where Sam stood, at Steve's elbow, throwing a peace sign for the latest spate of photos.

Seeing Sam up there with Steve made a muscle in Bucky's jaw twitch. His metal arm whirred, almost fracturing his right ulna. Not that Sam looked bad. Steve was wearing the suit, because of course, and Sam was in casual Falcon gear—leather jacket, jeans, and boots. The jacket didn't have nearly enough buttons, though. Bucky would have found something with more buttons.

Steve forced a laugh at something the little girl's dad had said, and the comms filled the sound. It was painful just to hear.

"Oh boy," Maria said, lightly. She must have finally looked away from monitoring the nearby access routes and zoomed in at her footage of the conference room. "I didn't realize such a beautiful man could look so . . ."

"Constipated," Sam supplied. He looked over his shades to shoot a wink at Bucky, who glared back as impressively as he could manage.

Yes, so Captain America was baring his teeth in an expression not horribly unlike the snarl of a rabid raccoon. Sam wasn't wrong.

Steve stepped back slightly from the photo-op between fans and made eye-contact with Bucky, raising his wrist to his mouth.

"I'm fine," he said into the comm. That was all. Two, clipped words, squeezed through clenched teeth. And then, in response to whatever face Bucky was making, he added, "It's just photos."

"It's _a lot_ of photos," Maria replied. “And we’re already two hours behind schedule. Not that I mind.” Bucky could imagine her putting her feet up in the surveillance van and almost envied her the comfort. But Steve wanted him in the room. And, if he was being honest, Bucky sort of wanted to be in the room, too. Even if it was _a lot_ of photos.

"Yeah, well waterboarding is just _a lot_ of water," Sam added. Whatever that meant. Neither of them really answered the unspoken question, which was when they could abort mission. Call it a day. Get out of that conference room and leave the mayor and the photo ops and finally have something to eat.

They were waiting, Bucky realized, for him to call it.

"We'll finish out the day," Bucky decided. "Hill, get us rooms at the nearest hotel and switch our flights to first-thing tomorrow. Sam, arrange food."

"Great, I'm thinking we get like seven pizzas—"

"And keep the comms clear," Bucky ordered, resuming his stock-still stance. Steve, on photo eighty-six, glanced up from where he was posing with a cat in a harness, and Bucky could have sworn he saw him mouth, "Thank you."

 

* * *

 

Steve hunched over the check-in desk, pulling his navy blue cap over his eyes. For such a massive man, it was absurd for him to consider hiding behind his own bulk, but somehow he was attempting it. Four paces to Steve's left, Bucky monitored the rest of the hotel lobby and pretended he didn't have an urge to prop Steve up with his metal arm, which was manifesting as a series of whirring noises below his shoulder.

Bucky could remember how Steve looked after six straight days of fighting Nazis with two hours of sleep, soaking shoes, and only four servings of "meat" stew to go around. And even though today was “just photos,” Steve looked beat.

As he scanned the lobby, Bucky could count thirteen people with camera phones, and two with real old-fashioned camera-cameras, snapping photos. He glanced around quickly and mentally added the one idiot with an iPad to the list. Even out of the suit, Captain America could draw a crowd.

"Are you sure there's nothing—" Maria was doing her best at charming the front desk clerk, but already Bucky could see her sharp edges, the way her brown eyes were flashing and the tendons were standing out in her neck. Others were noticing, too. Even though she was the smallest of their group and barely came up to Steve’s clavicle, Maria just radiated danger. Thanks to his training, Bucky knew that was in part due to the six concealed weapons he could easily count on her person.

The poor kid behind the desk was already dropping things—Bucky could see his hands shaking.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but it's last-minute, and _four_ rooms . . ."

"Three rooms is fine," Bucky cut in, raising his voice to cut across the distance. "Steve and I'll bunk together. Just send up a cot."

Maria glanced up. "No, I'm sure you're both exhausted. Apparently there's an airport motel across the river—"

"It's fine," Bucky said. Next to him, he saw Steve's massive shoulders relax. "C'mon," he added, and Steve trundled off to the elevator bank.

"Sure, leave me with all the stuff," Sam griped, hoisting duffle bag straps over his shoulders like it was the most difficult thing he had ever experienced.

"Builds character," Bucky called back. He could hear Sam muttering, but Steve was listing a bit to the side in his exhaustion, and Bucky had to hover nearby. Not that it would actually help, but he had to. He didn’t need another viral video of Steve angrily muttering, “I can do it on my own, Buck.” Unfortunately, the person who had recorded that video—either accidentally or maliciously—had misheard the “b” noise for an “f.” And no one wanted to sit down for another apology statement about the importance of language. Especially Bucky, who then had to listen to a _second_ lecture from Steve—in his Captain America suit and still talking that way—all about how Bucky needed to stop treating him like a child.

Now there were at least twenty people taking photos of Captain America. Bucky watched as his friend steeled himself, stood up straighter than should be possible, and even offered a wave and salute to the crowd that had gathered.

So maybe Thanos crashed a spaceship in the center of their river. Maybe, like, a couple people died and destroyed a landmark suspension bridge. But still, that salute meant something.

They didn't deserve it, Bucky thought.

 

* * *

 

On the twelfth floor, Bucky nudged Steve out of the elevator and accepted three bags from Sam.

"Twelve-fifteen," he said to Steve, jerking his head down the hall.

Steve finished the walk to their room like he had a yardstick taped to his spine, and Bucky followed, trying not to shake his head. Didn't anyone else realize how absurd Steve looked, expending superhuman effort to look superhuman? Worse, when Steve squared his shoulders and walked like this, his broad torso made his ass look impossibly small. What an idiot.

One of the cleaning staff saw them heading towards the room and froze, eyes wide. Bucky used to like this part—the way people's mouths would fall open just a bit, the hand to the collarbone, the unblinking stare. It was nice to see people finally appreciating Steve. And yes, for a little while, Bucky also almost felt jealous of the attention, too.

Now he was just annoyed.

"Good evening," Steve said with—really, Steve?—a pinched smile. As if he hadn't already exercised those muscles during his seven hours of photos.

"Hi," the woman replied, clutching onto her cart of cleaning supplies to keep herself upright.

"Have a good one," Bucky barked out, throwing open the door of their room and bulldozing Steve in with the bags—because, goodness knows, Steve would have probably offered to take a photo with her and asked her how her grandmother was doing and gotten into a full conversation about the importance of empathy in today's social climate.

The second the door closed behind them, Bucky threw the deadbolt and pulled the chain across, then dragged the desk chair and wedged it under the handle. He glanced over at Steve to see if he was judging him for overreacting, but his friend was sitting on the bed looking like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

"Thanks," he muttered. Even his voice sounded tired. It was incredible how fast the Captain America mask disappeared.

"No problem," Bucky replied, chucking the bags to free his arms for a full check of the room. It was a large space, at least twenty paces across, with a bank of windows at the far end. Bucky drew the shades and curtains for good measure. He checked the bathroom, too—a large tub, a glass shower, and zero bad guys.

"Clear," Bucky said.

"Yeah, good," Steve muttered, now rolling his head to loosen his neck. He sighed and then threw the cap off and pulled his t-shirt over his head, throwing it in a crumpled heap on the dresser. His aim was perfect, of course, but still. Bucky had forgotten just how much of a slob Steve could be. In fact, it had been almost eighty years since they had shared a room. It had been something they did all the time in Brooklyn and, during the war, but there weren't really _rooms_ to share.

There was something strangely different about it, something that made his blood rush and senses intensify. He had felt it before, in that elevator in Siberia, and considered it pre-op buzz and done as he was trained: ignore it, tamp it down, funnel it towards kicking bad guys’ butts.

But now.

Now he remembered, suddenly, that Steve had a habit of stealing blankets, and shivered a bit.

For just a moment, the room was silent. Steve was half-naked, staring off into space. Bucky was staring resolutely at the ceiling. A fan cycled on, blasting the room with stale-smelling air. They heard the elevator ding and the sound of small children running down the hall. Everything reeked of normalcy.

Still, with zero tangible threat, Bucky's nerves thrummed.

"Why don't you grab a shower," he offered, mostly to break the silence. "I'll hold down the fort."

"Thanks, Buck." Steve rose slowly and trundled to the bathroom, and soon his pants joined the shirt on the counter. When Bucky heard the door click, he walked over and opened it, just a crack. The shower was starting to run. It sounded like excellent water pressure. Goosebumps spread along Bucky's arm, as if imagining the heat of the water.

"Door open," he shouted in, prepared with a full tactical explanation.

"Sure," Steve called back. Bucky glared at the door and the sliver of warm, yellow light. He rubbed his metal fingers over the goosebumps on his right arm, which hurt, but at least pain eased the strange feeling. Then he headed back to the center of the hotel room.

There, like Shuri told him, he took three deep breaths. In, out. In, out. And then in, out.

He could unpack, but they would just be heading to Nashville tomorrow. Both of them were used to living out of a suitcase, and unpacking for Steve would mean going through all his things.

At least he could tidy a bit, make himself useful. The grey t-shirt was still warm. He folded it carefully. Now his hands would smell like Steve. Well, there were worse things to smell like, he supposed.

He listened to the rhythmic fall of the water, the loud sloshes that must correspond to Steve moving around underneath the stream. He remembered, suddenly, that Steve washed his left ear before his right.

These flashes of memory weren't anything new. His hand flew, without thinking about it, to the kimoyo beads on his wrist. Shuri had assured him that all the memories left in his head were his. That nothing had been planted by Hydra, or anyone else—because neither of them knew just how many people had messed around in his head over all those years.

When he woke up screaming about the German soldier he had shot through the throat in Azzano, that meant that the memory belonged to him. But it also meant that all these other memories were his, too. Through it all, whatever version of himself was in the command chair of his stupid brain, Steve was the only constant. Even the Winter Soldier knew that. He didn't have to strong-arm himself into being Bucky around Steve. It was like having a North Star.

(Not that he would ever say anything so sentimental to Shuri. She would probably make a meme of it. Goodness knows there were probably gifs of him making stupid faces all over Wakanda by now. Those youths.)

Meanwhile, Bucky listened to the water shut off and the hotel room grew silent once again. Instantly he felt like every inch of him was a livewire. The threat wasn't tangible, but his fight-or-flight was kicking in, the feeling so intense that he was sure his heart was beating so hard his shirt was vibrating visibly.

The bathroom door squeaked open, and Steve emerged smelling like hotel soap (sandalwood and jasmine) and literally steaming. And, of course, with a towel loosely wrapped around his hips. Not his waist, like a normal person, but lower than that, below his belly button so anyone could count his abs.

Steve also had those Adonis lines snaking their way down his hip bones.

Memory supplied him an image of fingers tracing those lines. The fingers had red nail polish—Peggy, he realized—and for a moment he was in that tent outside Caen, trying to pretend that he was just sleeping and not listening to their heavy breaths, the gasp of lips on lips, and the rhythmic thrumming of their bodies pressing against each other.

Despite the heat radiating from the bathroom, Bucky shivered. He mentally reminded himself: just Steve, just a memory, just _his_ memory. Not a threat. No reason for his heart to be sprinting in his chest, like a bird trying to escape his ribcage. And no reason to be analyzing every inch of Steve's body. He wasn't looking for tactical advantages or threats, and he wasn't looking for signs of illness or fatigue, so what was his excuse? He was allowed to relax, if only his body would get the message.

"Want to hop in?" Steve asked, jerking a thumb back towards the bathroom, and Bucky thanked his lucky stars that decades of trauma and training had taught him to keep a good poker face.

"Sure," he said, but he couldn't move. He glanced around the room one last time, trying to make sure that there was no logical reason for his nerves. The windows were covered. The door was locked and barricaded. The tech from Maria in their bags would scan for bugs, and Steve wasn't going to eat or drink anything without Bucky's go-ahead. (They had learned that lesson, to rather dramatic ends, at a banquet in Wakanda, which had earned him a full speech from Okoye about respecting the power of the Dora Milaje.)

Steve had the decency to pull his boxers on under his towel, so when he tossed that to the same spot on the dresser, he was at least semi-clothed. Bucky stomped over and grabbed the towel, mentally calling Steve a slob. He showered in less than five minutes, in freezing cold water to keep his mind blank like cryo.

 

* * *

 

Of course, when he opened the bathroom door, he was greeted with a wave of warm air, and Steve standing in the threshold, glaring at him.

"Here," he said, thrusting a sweatshirt at Bucky.

"I've got pajamas," Bucky answered, flapping the hem of his t-shirt against his flannel pants as proof.

Steve glared at him, all the righteous anger of a bald eagle landing on Mount Rushmore, then pressed the back of his hand to Bucky's right arm. His hand was blissfully warm, which made Bucky shiver for some reason, and the quiet part of his brain overloaded into a blast of static noise, short-circuiting. Fight-or-flight. Or something else.

"Put the sweatshirt on," Steve ordered, having proven to himself that Bucky was cold enough to need it. There was something sharp in his voice, so Bucky complied, trying not to be a grump about it.

The sweatshirt smelled like Steve—not the flowery hotel soap, but the muskier scent of him. Bucky zipped it up slowly, taking care with his metal arm. The mechanisms were a little stiff from the cold and this was Steve's sweatshirt. Borrowing usually entailed returning in one piece.

With Steve watching him, all but staring daggers, Bucky climbed onto the bed and scooted into the furthest corner, where the bed tucked against the wall, and crossed his legs. A tactical position, with full view of the windows, hidden from the door.

Steve sighed and sat on the far edge of the bed. The mattress moved under his weight—even from his perch, Bucky could feel it.

"Want to talk about it?" Steve sounded exhausted, so it was barely a question. It came out flat, blunt. Nothing like the way Steve so normally tempered his questions.

"I'm fine," Bucky said.

"Your lips are blue," Steve said. Bucky wasn't sure whether this was true or classic Steve hyperbole. He sighed, but Shuri had told him about this, too. That talking about it and being honest was part of keeping his new self healthy. His brain wasn't a vault anymore, which worked both ways. Letting the human part of himself in meant letting other people in, too.

"I'm nervous," he said. The silence stretched. He listened to a cart squeak down the corridor outside. It had one broken wheel—he could hear it veering every couple of feet. Someone was getting room service.

Steve stared down at his hands, head falling below his shoulders. He still wasn't wearing a shirt, and Bucky found himself staring at those broad shoulders, like he had x-ray vision to bore through to see what Steve was really thinking.

"I want to make sure you're alright," Bucky finally said.

Steve was quick to respond, talking into his hands: "That's not your responsibility."

A snort escaped Bucky before he could stop it.

"Steve, that's my _only_ responsibility."

Steve turned, pulling his right leg up onto the bed so he could face Bucky.

"Okay," he said. He was starting to nod emphatically, his force making the whole bed rock a little bit. "Okay," he said again. "So how do I show you that I'm alright." Not a question, because Steve Rogers was going to do it, and gosh-darn-it, when Captain America made a promise, it happened.

Bucky shrugged, shrinking in on himself. He hated it, hated how the very sight of Steve staring at him with those absurd cow-eyes made him feel more nervous than jumping off a fifteen-story building. How could Steve not see his heart beating through his chest, through his t-shirt, through the sweatshirt?

"Do you want me to go stay with Sam?" Steve asked, his voice sticking a bit on the sixth word. _Go_.

"No," Bucky said quickly. "I just . . ." He drew a deep breath and focused on what Shuri had told him. Building strong, new memories. Unfogging his brain. Speaking his truth. And maybe if he talked it through, dumped out the contents of his rattly brain, it would start to make sense. "What if something happens?"

"What if something happens _to me_?" Steve clarified, like it was a question. He was moving closer to Bucky without realizing it—now his left leg was on the bed, too, and he was within arms' reach. Bucky shrugged again, shrunk into the corner again. Steve noticed. Of course Steve noticed the way Bucky was pulling away. It seemed to cause him physical pain, but he inched back to the far side of the bed.

"Buck, I want things to happen . . . to me. That's what I signed up for. To help people, to be that person."

"Not for eighty years," Bucky cut in.

Steve shrugged, and Bucky watched the mechanics of the muscles pulling at his shoulders.

"I'm okay with it, Buck."

"What if I'm not?"

Steve's brows drew together.

"I . . ."

"Sorry," Bucky said. "That was . . . too honest."

"I prefer honest."

Bucky sighed and untangled himself from the coil of limbs, slowly inching to fill his half of the bed. He had to try to put words to whatever he was feeling. He owed Steve that. And he was already halfway through this conversation. He could set his jaw and finish it.

"Whenever I'm with you it . . . it feels like I'm _on_ , you know? Like maybe I still think it's an op, and I just have to protect you—"

"You don't have to!"

"Shut up, Rogers," Bucky growled, clenching his jaw so hard he worried for the safety of his teeth. "I'm just talking about how I feel."

Steve had the decency to blush and mutter an apology.

For a moment Bucky watched him, and considered shrinking back in on himself. Instead, stubbornness won, and he made a point of settling himself, crossing his legs and leaning against the pillow. Steve glanced at him, and then mirrored him, legs outstretched as he leaned against the other pillow, in parallel.

They listened to the sound of the upstairs shower switching on, like rain on the roof. This close, Bucky could even hear Steve breathing.

"So do you feel like—like you don't want to be near me?" Steve said, his voice somewhat strangled. "Because if you want to go back to Wakanda, I'm sure—"

"Shut up, Rogers," Bucky said again, and Steve's cheeks were now bright red. "I don't want to _not_ be here . . . it's just torture being here."

"Torture—?"

"Rogers! Let me talk!" That shut Steve up, but his voice had been too loud. For a moment, the words floated in the air. They both stared straight ahead, Bucky memorizing the horrible zig-zagging art framed across from the bed. It looked like arterial spray to him, if someone had puke-orange blood.

"I want to be here," Bucky said again. "I don't . . . I don't ever want to _not_ be here." Steve glanced over at him, all wide blue eyes. "I mean," Bucky clarified. "Not Cincinnati. This place sucks ass. I mean . . . with you. At your side. I think that's sort of where I'm supposed to be. No. I just . . . I know it’s where I’m supposed to be. With you. You’re . . . you’re my . . . " He searched for the words, but nothing was the right one.

Steve was staring at him, like he was having a laughing fit and a stroke at the same time, but he was clearly working very hard to let Bucky talk.

“Everything, or something, or whatever,” Bucky finally said. He huffed a bit, angry at himself for struggling so much for the words. “I just . . . hope that I’m enough. To keep you safe. And to. Be there. Be here.”

He couldn’t quite look at Steve, but he felt a need to complete the sentiment, so he reached out and put his arm on Steve's leg, like the way Steve would clap a strong hand on his shoulder sometimes. It was the metal arm, but it was better than nothing. Steve glanced down at it, and Bucky watched as the effort melted from his body. It was that sense, again, of the strings being cut—but this time, Steve leaned in towards him, like he had been pulled to Bucky the whole time.

“I’m done talking,” Bucky said. “So. You can ask all those horrible questions that I’m sure are rattling around in that dumb head of yours.” He drew deep breath, counting the beats in his head, and braced for the worst questions.

Instead, Steve and his stupid cow-eyes asked, "Buck, can I hug you now?”

Bucky glared at him, all sharp edges to hide his relief. Because that question had an easy answer.

"It's stupid when you ask. Like, now that you said it . . ."

"Buck."

"Yeah, I guess."

Bucky had thought that Steve's shirt smelled like Steve, or his sweatshirt. But it was nothing compared to the actual Steve. He was wrapped all around Bucky, and tactically it should have felt threatening, like being crushed, like being trapped, like the Chair. But Bucky felt his heartbeat slow. He inhaled, and let the tension leave his body.

This, _this_ was one of those good memories that Shuri had told him about. A good memory to save for later.

After a moment, he pulled away.

"You okay?" Steve asked.

"Yeah," Bucky said, blushing a bit. "Just hot." He gently unzipped the sweatshirt, shucking it from his arms, intensely aware that Steve was watching him.

When he tossed it aside, Steve pressed a thumb gently to Bucky's right arm, then the palm of his hand, checking the temperature of his skin like he had before.

"Your lips aren't blue anymore," Steve said, and Bucky was suddenly aware that Steve was staring at his mouth. It made the bottom drop out of his stomach, made a muscle coil tightly below his belly button. He couldn't look away from Steve's eyes, but he felt the gentle thumb on his forearm slide over the skin there, and his heart wasn't just sprinting—it was vibrating at super-speed.

This was a _very_ good memory. One that he would save for later, but maybe for a very _specific_ later.

Steve's eyes flicked back up to Bucky's, and for a moment he just stared, his body angling to face Bucky's. They weren't parallel anymore—they overlapped, limbs in criss-crossed lines. The bare skin of Steve's thigh pressed against the flimsy fabric of Bucky's pajama pants.

Steve was warm, so warm that each inch of Bucky seemed to burn with contact. For just a second, Steve hesitated, then reached up with his other arm to brush a fingertip across Bucky's lips. Like he needed to ascertain that they were warm. Bucky knew that, instantly: they burned at Steve's touch. The tingling sensation wasn't just on his mouth—his entire body thrummed with energy, and his heart was beating so hard to rush the blood to another part of his body with newfound purpose. Adrenalin: fight, flight, or f—

A knock at the door shattered the moment.

Bucky flew from the bed, landing in a defensive position by Steve's side with a machine gun pulled from the bedside table in his hands in under five seconds.

"Buck," Steve said softly. "That must be the pizza."

 

* * *

 

Both of them were starving. Sam wasn't kidding about the seven pizzas, except he ordered all of them for Steve and Bucky's room. Steve had the decency to at least put on sweatpants, even though his bare chest earned a few raised eyebrows from the delivery man.

Even with the pants hampering him, Steve inhaled an entire pepperoni pie before Bucky even finished paying.

"Hey," Bucky said, brandishing a poison-testing kit. "Want a repeat of the banquet?"

"Buck," Steve said through a mouthful of pizza, rolling his eyes. "It's _pizza_. You can't poison _pizza_."

(At least, that's what Bucky guessed he was saying—Steve's mouth was full of pizza number two.)

Bucky ate like a civilized human, one slice at a time, unlike Steve who managed to roll up the entire thing and snarf it down like a large burrito of oil and cheese.

Unfortunately, Sam had not considered that seven is not divisible by two super-soldiers.

"Last one's mine," Steve declared, swiping the box from the edge of the bed and settling it on his lap.

"Says who?" Bucky demanded.

"Says Captain America," Steve growled back, puffing himself up. "The man who saved the world, and took photos with two hundred children today alone, plus six pets."

"Seven," Bucky corrected.

"Exactly." Bucky glanced at the box, and then swiped it out of Steve's hands, blocking Steve's grab with a nudge of his metal arm. Just a tap, really. Hardly something to leave a bruise.

"Hey!" Steve cried. Super-soldier indignation was _funny_ , Bucky realized.

"And this Winter Soldier did all the actual work today, protecting your ass from no fewer than eighteen Hydra and Skrull operatives, plus three crazy fangirls, one who came with a kidnap van."

Steve paled. "Really?" he asked.

Bucky shoved a slice of pizza in his mouth as an answer. But Steve had that look back in his eyes. As Bucky was chewing, Steve reached out for the box, ducking Bucky's half-hearted left hook and snagging the box successfully. He smiled, and slowly dropped another slice into his mouth from above, letting it fold over itself and chewing with his mouth open.

"Gross," Bucky said. "I thought you were supposed to be a gentleman. From a more civilized generation."

"I'm off-duty," Steve said, mouth still full. Bucky narrowed his eyes and reached for the box. This time Steve knew he was trying for it, so he swallowed his big gulp and pushed away Bucky's arm, shoving him aside with his shoulder. The momentum threw Bucky into the wall a bit, knocking the air out of his lungs. But then Steve's mouth fell open, because even though Steve still held the box, Bucky now had a fresh slice dangling from his hand. As Steve stared, Bucky rolled onto the bed, grabbed the box, and landed by the foot of the bed, prize in his hands.

The incredulity was gone, and now Steve was grinning. He rolled into a runner's lunge and rocketed off the bed. The space was too small, and Bucky was hampered by holding the pizza box in one arm, so Steve hit him in the stomach, pinning him to the wall. The ugly painting fell from its hook, landing with a resounding _bang_ on the desk. Bucky flailed a bit, maneuvering the box to grab Steve in a one-armed chokehold.

Stupid parkour Steve used the leverage of having Bucky’s arm wrapped around his throat and pressed his feet against the desk (oops, that was the wood splintering, really not their fault this room wasn't up to super-soldier tussling), flipping over Bucky's head, snagging the pizza box to land on the bed—the high ground.

With hesitation, Bucky went for his bare feet and had the pleasure of watching his victory unfold in slow motion. The tackle threw Steve back onto the pillows, the pizza box flying, and for a moment they were a jumble of limbs like a cartoon fight.

Finally, panting, Steve pressed Bucky to the mattress, fully straddling him—thighs to thighs, hands to hands, pressing Bucky completely to the mattress. Bucky could feel the points of Steve's hips pressing into his own. He wriggled a bit against them, pressing upwards, but Steve held him down.

Conceding defeat, Bucky glanced over and found, to his chagrin, that the pizza had cleanly landed, still in its box, on the exact same point on the dresser where Steve had thrown all his clothes.

"You're a punk," Bucky said, surprised to hear how ragged his own breathing had become. Steve rolled his hips, pressing Bucky harder to the mattress, lifting his brows at Bucky’s comment.

"Jerk."

Even without the benefit of a metal arm, Steve was stronger than him—Bucky rationalized it was the extra slices of pizza powering him—so Bucky couldn't do much except wiggle a bit under the force, earning a laugh from Steve. Scooting complete, Bucky made his way halfway into a sitting position, with Steve still holding him down. It was slightly less embarrassing, since he could at least move his shoulders off the mattress, but now their faces were so close together that the zinging was back along his skin, raising goosebumps along his flesh.

And it definitely wasn’t fear.

Steve's hands had been pressing his to the mattress, but now they slid up his bare forearms. Bucky concentrated on holding himself very, very still, willing the metal arm to behave. And other parts of his body that he wasn't entirely sure were still in his control.

"Buck," Steve said between quiet gasps for air, "can I kiss you now?"

Bucky meant to nod—he really did—but their faces were just so close together that the movement of his face brought them too close, and his lips just barely grazed Steve's.

Immediately, Bucky drew back, unsure of what he had done. Steve released his arms, and shifted his hips downwards to give Bucky more freedom to sit up—and move away if he needed. But despite pulling away, Steve’s eyes were huge, the blue still barely a thin line around wide black pupils. Those lips, the ones that Bucky had just kissed inadvertently, were pink and full and parted just a little, Steve's ragged breath escaping between them.

Steve didn't speak. The room was quiet again, but Bucky's ears buzzed with the rush of blood. This, too, was okay. But he didn't want it to be just a good memory to save for later. He wasn't done with it quite yet.

Swallowing, he slowly moved a hand to Steve's back, settling it gently on the shoulder. He wasn't quite sure what to do with it. And the metal arm? His brain couldn't compute, it was short-circuiting in a static fuzz and only seemed capable of processing Steve's lips, so he left the arm on the mattress and his eyes on Steve's mouth.

Gripping the bare skin of Steve's shoulder, he pulled himself closer again, pressing his lips just to Steve's lower lip as gently as he could, barely ghosting along the surface. And then he moved up just a little, and Steve parted his lips, and his hand wasn't hovering on Steve's shoulder—it was in the back of Steve's hair, roughly pressing him closer, as he let his tongue slide over Steve’s mouth.

They drew apart for a moment and Steve exhaled again, and this time it caught in the back of his throat.

It was a small noise. Bucky wasn't sure what the noise did to him—it must have registered in his face, or Steve was keenly aware of what was happening to him below the waist—because Steve leveraged his hand by Bucky's hip and flipped them around, so Bucky was now the one hovering over Steve.

"Arms getting tired?" Bucky asked, smiling a bit. He liked looking down at Steve from his angle, but his hair fell a bit into his eyes. Steve brushed the hair out of Bucky's face as Bucky wiggled into position, spreading his thighs so his knees were on either sides of Steve's hips. His legs almost trembled, but not from the effort.

"I have a better use for them," Steve said simply, and he gently put his hands on Bucky's hips. "That okay?" he asked, when Bucky hesitated.

Bucky responded by leaning into him, pressing his mouth, his chest, his hips, everything up against Steve. He wanted every inch of them to touch. This was a different type of torture being close to Steve, or maybe this was just what it had been all along and now he just had a different name for it, now he just had time to understand it.

It was as if he could never be close enough. His lips parted, and Steve mirrored him. The hands weren't on his hips anymore—they were pressing lower, and then after a moment Steve slid his hand up under Bucky's shirt, grabbing at his waist.

Now it was Bucky's turn to make a very embarrassing sound.

Steve was _everywhere_. He was on Bucky's lips, on the bare skin of his belly, making him tremble. Even their feet intertwined. For a moment, Bucky broke away.

"You okay?" Steve asked again.

"Yeah," Bucky muttered. "Just . . . " His voice was unsteady, and Steve laughed too, pink spots in his cheeks. "It's really warm in here."

"Yeah," Steve said, and his hands slid under Bucky's shirt, fiddling with the hem. But he let Bucky decide, and apparently all of Bucky was _yes_ today, because he muttered "fuck it" and pulled the shirt off.

Steve was staring up at him, with something more than hunger in his eyes.

"Sorry, about the arm," Bucky muttered, suddenly self-conscious of the bold scars wrapping around the remaining flesh just above his shoulder. Steve glanced at him, and then gently scooted their bodies around so he was back on top. This was good too, with Steve straddling him.

"Mind if I take these sweatpants off?" Steve asked, grinning a bit.

"Sure, no, yeah, whatever," Bucky said all at once. What was Steve grinning about.

As the pants came off, Bucky understood the grin. And tried not to stare. There were a million jokes, all of which he was sure had already been said.

Steve leaned into him, every inch—and now Bucky had seen for himself how many inches there really were—watching Bucky's face carefully. For a moment, Bucky wondered what expression he was making. But however he looked, it didn't matter, because Steve pressed his lips to the line on Bucky's shoulder where metal met flesh.

"That okay?" he asked. Bucky nodded, unsure if he had words, because Steve added his tongue to each gentle kiss. And then he trailed up to the hollow space at the base of his neck, then up his jawline, and his ear, until Bucky writhed underneath him, processing the heat and the tickle and the zing as more static that his brain could handle.

Steve laughed, a low noise, that Bucky felt vibrating through his chest. He locked his eyes onto Bucky's, and then began moving ever-so-slowly downward.

Scratchy kisses pressed to Bucky's jaw. To his neck. To his collarbones. He broke off to ghost his lips along Bucky's stomach, certainly able to feel the way Bucky was trembling, certainly able to hear the small gasps Bucky was making with every attempt to breathe.

And then his fingertips were ghosting under Bucky's pajama pants, tracing small circles on the delicate skin of his belly.

"Is this okay?" he asked again. He pressed a kiss along the hemline, half skin, half fabric. Bucky nodded, and Steve looked up for verbal confirmation.

"Yes," he was finally able to say. Steve scooted the fabric down a centimeter.

"This okay?"

"Yes," Bucky gasped out.

When Steve couldn't ask anymore, Bucky kept saying yes, with his words, and with his hands in Steve's hair, with the way his hips kept bucking off the bed. And when he couldn't say yes anymore, he yelled it, screamed it, so loud that he was sure all of America could hear him.

 

* * *

 

"I broke the bed," Bucky said, his voice weak.

Steve laughed, and had the audacity to lick his lips. _Punk_ was far too kind a word for that kind of behavior.

"As much as I'd like to blame you, I should probably take some of the credit," he said, rolling over onto his back to lie next to Bucky, both of them, bare-chested, panting. They noticed at the same time—the rhythmic, somewhat strained rise and fall of their chests.

"It's really hot in here," Bucky said, trying not to laugh. It was hilarious, somehow, and he found that even though he wasn’t sure he could breathe, he could definitely laugh.

"You don't have any more clothes to take off," Steve noticed, also grinning. Bucky looked down. Apparently Steve had liberated him on his remaining clothing, somewhere when the whole of Bucky's brain had been a bit too distracted to take note.

"Oops," he said.

Steve looked him up and down, and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"I have an idea," he said. "Put your pants back on."

Bucky wasn’t particularly interested in any activities that were clothing-mandatory, but he reluctantly complied.

 

* * *

 

They took the elevator to the top floor, and giggled most of the way, because they wanted to face each other again, just like in Siberia, except this time, they both knew why. Steve laughed and shoved his bare shoulder into Bucky’s and if it weren’t for the fact that there were probably-definitely cameras, they might have found another clothing-optional activity right there in the elevator.

On the top floor, Steve found the fire stairs and opened the door. Bucky followed him to the roof, where Steve once again made his own key. So the hotel staff would fine a few doors pried from their hinges. That was the cost of hosting Captain America, apparently.

“Here,” Steve said, walking to the edge of the roof. The air here was still stale, and Bucky could smell the haze of the city. But at least it was cool on his hot skin. He followed Steve and they sat on the side of the building, dangling bare toes off the edge.

“Oh man,” Steve said, staring off into the distance. Cincinnati was a small city, with only a few skyscrapers spread out along the horizon. Bucky counted office lights, wondering if they represented employees or empty offices.

The cool air on their skin didn’t just calm the physical heat of their bodies. Bucky felt himself returning to baseline, and he knew Steve felt the same from the other man's silence. That, and Steve clearly hadn't been remarking at the beauty of the view. He was commenting on the situation they were suddenly in, together.

“I have a confession to make,” Steve said, finally. Bucky didn’t turn.

“What, you don’t normally do that?” he asked.

“No—I mean, yes, I don’t normally just sort of . . . move that quickly,” Steve said. Bucky could tell he was picking the words carefully, and he didn’t have to turn to know that Steve was scowling, his face twisted with the superhuman effort of trying to say the perfect thing.

“Then what.” Bucky was bored with the city, and he found his eyes trailing up to the stars, where they locked on the brightest, fixed point. The North Star. His heart was beating hard, and this was fear. Steve brought him up to the roof. Why.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while, now,” Steve finally said, like it took enormous effort to do so.

“What, suck my dick?”

“Bucky!” Steve almost shoved him off the building, and that would have been quite the story to explain, why they were arguing half-naked on a roof at two in the morning.

Bucky shrugged, willing himself to turn and face Steve. And, because that took enough effort, he said nothing. Used the Winter Soldier stare. Kept his face as calm and empty as possible.

It was extremely effective. Steve’s face was beet-red, a color Bucky was amused to see traveling down his torso at a rather aggressive pace.

“I mean, well, yeah,” Steve relented. Now it was Bucky’s turn to almost fall off the roof.

“No way,” he said, his voice flat.

“What, you think I just liked drawing your face?”

Bucky traced his own jawline. “I just thought I had a great face,” he said, tempted to throw in a roguish wink. And then, after a pause, he added more seriously: “I mean, wasn’t I sort of the only person who would sit still long enough? Aside from your ma?”

Steve shifted next to him, and his bare shoulder brushed Bucky’s. The electricity at the touch was distracting. This was an important conversation. He couldn’t look at Steve anymore—he didn't want to risk it—so his eyes found the star again.

“I must have sketched you a thousand times,” Steve said quietly. He sighed again. “Did you ever . . . ?”

“Think of . . . this?” Bucky finished Steve’s sentence. “No. I don’t think so.” Steve shifted, almost pulling away, so Bucky spat out the rest of his words quickly: “Until—after—when I saw that someone was taking you away. I was jealous and—I didn’t know why. I guess I hadn’t considered a future where we weren’t together.”

The rest of this was hard, but he had to say it, too, “And then I lived that future. For more than a lifetime. Without you. And I . . . I don’t want to do that again. Ever.”

A trunk honked below, and they listened to the engine strain as it passed the hotel so many floors below. He was too scared to look at Steve’s face. So he stared, resolutely, at that one star.

“What are you staring at, Buck?” Steve asked.

“Nothing.”

“There’s nothing to worry about out there. Nova Prime said they’d keep our quadrant clear.”

“Not what I meant,” Bucky said. “Can’t stars just be stars?”

“I suppose.”

Bucky sighed and leaned sideways, so that his shoulder pressed against Steve’s chest. After a moment, Steve moved his arm to encircle Bucky’s shoulders. They both inhaled and sighed together, as if on cue, and then Steve laughed.

“Like that.”

“Mm?”

“You’re right, Buck, this is where I’m supposed to be. You are that for me, too.”

“C’mon Rogers,” Bucky griped. “If you’re going to be all sappy with me, at least be original.”

“There’s nothing original about love,” Steve said, staring up at the sky.

Bucky groaned at him.

“Shut up,” Steve said, and Bucky could feel him blushing again, which was glorious. “Okay, how’s this. That one reminds me of you,” Steve said, pointing up at a red light in the sky. Bucky scowled.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Mars,” Steve said lightly. “Named for the god of war and passion.” Bucky wasn’t sure what to say that, because it wasn’t _wrong_. It made him uncomfortable, how accurate it was.

“That one is you,” he said, pointing at the North Star.

"Hey!" That same indignation made Bucky almost laugh, even if he didn't understand it.

"Why?"

"Making fun of me? The _little_ dipper?"

"Oh," Bucky said. "No, I mean, like, all that mushy nonsense about a North Star. Being, like, constant and always there and pure.” There was a long pause. They both stared up at the sky.

"That's awful nice, Buck," Steve finally said. And then, after a beat: "Who would've guessed you'd be the more romantic of the two of us."

"I'm better at everything," Bucky retorted.

"Not arguing with that."

Bucky and Steve breathed deep, together, as one, just watching the stars. The haze of the city cut off the beauty of the sky at its knees, hiding the Milky Way. If Bucky strained his super-eyes, he could almost see the pink flush spreading across the sky. A few stars winked at him. The fast-moving dot of light was likely the space station, or a red-eye flight. Beside him, Steve was warm.

“I felt this way the night before the procedure,” Steve said, finally breaking the silence. His fingers were tracing small circles on Bucky’s bare shoulder, so that couldn’t exactly be something bad, right?

Bucky was silent.

Steve laughed quietly, the air tickling the small hairs behind Bucky’s ear.

“I get what you mean,” Steve said. “What you said earlier. ‘What if something happens.’ I guess I sort of rushed things. I just . . . ”

Bucky shrugged into Steve, the way one would pull a blanket around themselves. A warm blanket, that smelled so much like Steve it made him ache below his collarbones.

“So it happened. And now . . .” Bucky stared at the pinpricks of light in the night sky. “Now, anything can happen.”

“Like what?” Steve asked.

Bucky swiveled his head, just so that he could face Steve.

“Let’s start with this,” he said, and gently leaned up for a kiss.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Maria met them in the lobby for the continental breakfast.

Bucky took his time getting ready, with a warm shower, a good shave, and by stealing one of Steve's nicer shirts. (Steve was right: he looked better in it.)

When he joined the table, Maria was frozen in position, arms crossed, right ankle propped on left knee, staring at Steve—who, at the moment, was shoving an entire waffle into his mouth.

"What's wrong?" Bucky asked.

"Why's he grinning like an idiot?" she asked.

"Look who remembered how to smile!" Sam said, announcing his presence by throwing himself into a chair and flinging a bagel onto the corresponding place setting.

"You'd think after yesterday he'd want to give those face muscles a break," Maria said.

"I guess," Steve said. "But for some reason, I just can't stop smiling."

Sam looked back and forth between Steve and Bucky, eyes narrowed.

"Huh," he said.

"What?" Maria asked.

"Yeah, what?" Bucky asked.

"Y'all finally fucked, didn't you," Sam said.

Bucky wasn't sure what to say that, but he felt his own face breaking into a huge smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the amazing kitt3nz for giving this the beta read and the push I needed to get this out into the world!


End file.
